


thunderstruck.

by somethingdivine



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Friendship, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Violence, superhero au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:22:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24743791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingdivine/pseuds/somethingdivine
Summary: In which Jack Kelly returns from the dead, Pulitzer makes an attempt at seizing power, and three kids try to save a falling city.
Relationships: David Jacobs/Jack Kelly, David Jacobs/Jack Kelly/Katherine Plumber, David Jacobs/Katherine Plumber, Jack Kelly/Katherine Plumber
Comments: 16
Kudos: 41





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> so here it is, finally—the jathvey superhero au i've been sitting on for a little while. first of all, i want to say thank you for being here; i'm really excited to get this out of my head and see where my muse takes it. some notes before we begin: i do have a plan for this, start to finish, but only the first few chapters have been written out, so updates may come slowly. action and friendship are probably going to be the most important aspects of this fic, because while the ot3 is the endgame, my focus is building them as a team and as friends first and foremost. there's going to be violence but with the plan that i currently have it won't be gory or overly graphic. think like, a marvel movie. i'll also post warnings for specific triggers in the notes of each chapter.
> 
> with that being said, let's get on with the introduction. tws for this chapter are fire and major character death (kinda?).
> 
> i also have a playlist for this fic [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5MOtuJPFRS8Nmv2Zk6siHN?si=Pgl9YdRiTNuN9QuCPvTfHQ).

**_prologue._ **

* * *

**THE CATALYST FOR ALL OF THIS** is a fire.

On the day that it starts, it’s snowing, the kind of biting, snarling cold that’s only found in New York in January. The city is half-buried in layers of white and dead beneath it, so when the flames catch, hot and bright and golden, it seems as though they’re the only living thing for miles. 

Black smoke curls into the air above the hospital, and twelve blocks away, just outside a coffee shop, Crutchie’s fingers dig into Jack’s arm.

“Don’t,” he says. It’s more of a plea than anything, his cheeks bright red and eyes glassy from the sting of the cold. There’s fear written in every corner of his face; he must know, already, what’s on Jack’s mind. “Jack, your powers won’t do anything against the fire, let someone else handle it—”

Jack’s not listening, too busy tugging on his mask and pulling out of Crutchie’s grip. He’s right, maybe—Jack can summon lightning to his fingertips but will be powerless in the center of an inferno, and in the moment he can’t bring himself to care. “I’ll be back,” he tells Crutchie over his shoulder. “I always come back.”

Crutchie yells something after him that’s lost to the blizzard. 

When Jack reaches the hospital, the fire has spread; he can feel the heat of it in the air, a stark contrast to the still-falling snow that’s turning black with ash. Around him people are screaming. For a brief, fleeting second he hesitates—the fire department will be here soon, and they will do what they can, and he could turn back now.

Except he can’t, not really. Not away from this. He strips off his coat and tugs his scarf over his mouth and nose and someone behind him calls out to him, but then it doesn’t matter because he’s already inside. 

It’s like stepping into hell. Jack thinks he could die from the smell alone; there’s smoke everywhere and it’s suffocating, burns in his throat and his nose and threatens to strangle him. He can’t focus on that, though, can’t focus on the oppressiveness of the heat and the fire in his lungs. He has to find the stragglers and get out—he can hear voices coming from every direction, reverberating in his skull. Jack blinks the soot and sweat from his eyes and takes off towards the closest one.

There’s a woman half-pinned under her wheelchair, sobbing for help. The metal is searing already; he bites back a cry as he wrenches it off of her and slings one of her arms over his shoulder, half-dragging her back to the entrance. She’s saying something to him but he can’t hear her over the roar of the flames and the ringing in his ears. The moment she’s safe, he tears back inside.

Jack pulls two more people out of the building, a young girl still clinging to a stuffed turtle, a nurse who’s stumbling blindly through the smoke, and runs back in a fourth time. Distantly, he wonders why the sprinklers never turned on, wonders if the firetrucks have made it through the blizzard—he doesn’t know how much longer he can do this, honestly. His vision is going blurry, tinted at the edges from the heat and smoke and exhaustion, but there’s still voices coming from inside. He has to keep going—

When the entrance to the building caves in, what could be minutes or maybe hours of dragging people through smoke and fire later, it’s striking in its finality, like the last nail on a coffin. Like his fate has been sealed. Jack feels his legs give way in the same manner—he could find another exit, he thinks, but oh, the room is spinning ferociously. There’s tongues of red and gold around him, and voices still piercing the air, and he thinks of Crutchie, standing in the snow and still waiting for him to come back, to keep his promise. 

In the end it’s Spot’s voice in his head, words from years ago when Jack had only just started donning the suit. He was more solemn than Jack had ever seen him, eyes like chips of coal as he told him gravely, _you can’t save everyone._

But Jack had been sixteen and restless and determined, and now he’s eighteen and burning and maybe already dead. 

_No,_ he had said then, and thinks again now as he finally, finally shuts his eyes. _But I can sure as hell try._


	2. part one - lazarus ; or the return of jack kelly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey readers! i want to start by saying thank you so much for all the support and interest so far—i was honestly not expecting to get so much feedback with just the introduction but i'm really thrilled so many people are here for the ride! i figured i would go ahead and put part one up; this is the only back-to-back update i'll be doing, but i wanted to have more than the prologue out there. from this point forward i'm going to try bi-weekly updates on tuesdays and fridays (that's tentative and subject to change depending on how things carry on, though!). 
> 
> again, thank you for your interest and i really really appreciate the kudos and comments, it means the world to me. oh, and also—everyone give a big round of applause to my amazing girlfriend, @mistyw273 on tumblr, for being an equally amazing beta reader! i couldn't do this without her. with that, let's get on with part one.

**ACT I.** _  
 **part one.**_ _  
_ _lazarus ; or the return of jack kelly_

* * *

_five months later._

**JACK DOESN’T KNOW** **WHEN** he started running, and doesn’t know where to stop.

Right now the world is this hazy, deafening thing. The streets loop endlessly around him, too bright and too loud, a mix of over-saturated colors and sounds he can’t pull apart. In the middle of it all he feels as if he’s drowning. He’s drugged up to his eyes, this much he can tell—there’s little else that he’s aware of, though, except for his feet pounding against the pavement and this base, animalistic instinct in the back of his brain telling him to _go._ To run and run and keep running. 

So he does. Buildings and road signs and people dissolve into background noise as he tears through the streets. Someone is after him; as disoriented as he is, he’s sure of it, and it’s that hot rush of fear that keeps him going more than anything else. A spike of adrenaline pushing him forward. 

Maybe he’s lost them miles ago, but it’s not until the moment he thinks his legs will give out underneath him that he collapses against the back wall of an alleyway, sputtering for a breath. His lungs burn and he feels dizzy, but Jack pushes past the blurred images in his head and the low ringing in his ears to catalog what he knows. His name is Francis— _no_ . He swallows dryly and starts again. His name is _Jack Kelly._ He’s eighteen, maybe nineteen, now, depending on how much time has passed. He’s an art student, and a superhero, and there was a fire, and then—

And then everything fills up with static and the feeling of hands on his skin and this harsh, chemical smell. His stomach turns. 

Jack _hates_ feeling like this, like he’s been separated from his own thoughts. The lack of control that comes with the clouded figures where his memories should be is enough to make him vulnerable in a way he hasn’t felt in years, exposed like a copper wire that’s been stripped of its casing. 

And the current—that’s gone altogether. There are silver cuffs biting into the skin of his wrists; the seam that held them together is broken along a jagged edge, but the slim band of green light lining them means they’re still suppressing his powers. Jack aches for the buzz of electricity to come back, needs them _off._ He twists his hands desperately and in doing so, makes his drug-addled brain suddenly aware of a cold piece of metal clenched in his fist.

He opens his palm. It’s a flash drive. His mind dredges up a fuzzy memory of ripping it from a computer port in what he thinks might have been a control room. He doesn’t know what it contains, but if he’d held onto it so desperately that it became second nature, then it must be important. He needs to find a computer, he thinks abruptly, and then stands up and immediately sways on his feet. 

Okay—okay. Not yet, maybe. Before that, he needs food and water and rest. He needs the lodging house, except he has no idea where he is, and in the state he’s in, he barely knows which way is up. He needs—he needs to call Crutchie.

Jack is struck suddenly by the overwhelming desire to hear his pseudo-brother’s voice, strong enough that his chest physically hurts from it. It’s been—weeks, maybe? months?—the longest they’ve gone without seeing each other since they were kids. If he can get his hands on a phone and get Crutchie on the line, he thinks, then powerless and drugged or not, he’ll be okay. 

It’s not much of a plan, but it’s a start. All he has to do is find a phone. This is easier said than done, though; there’s still a payphone booth left next to a nearby subway station, rusted from lack of use, but he doesn’t have any money. He’s aware of how he must look, a boy in tattered clothes with cloudy eyes and words slurred together, begging for change. More than one person threatens to call the police. Most of them just push him away. Jack feels his desperation pitching upward quickly, tightening in his throat.

When a stranger finally hands him a few quarters with a wary look, he’s not sure if it’s fear or pity or some combination of the two that makes her do it. He’s grateful all the same. He rushes over to the booth, blood roaring in his ears from the anticipation. His hands are shaking so hard that his fingers stumble over the keypad, but he knows Crutchie’s number by heart, is sure he could dial it in his sleep. It goes to voicemail and Jack shoves the receiver against his ear.

“Crutchie, it’s me—it’s Jack. _Please_ pick up.”

When he slides the second quarter into the slot and calls again, it barely has a chance to ring.

“Jack is dead.” Crutchie’s voice comes through, wavering. Jack almost chokes on his relief.

“I’m not,” he says, and there’s a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line, and then a noise that sounds like a broken sob. 

“No—”

“Crutchie, I’m here. It’s me. I’m not dead.”

“ _How…_ ”

“I don’t know,” Jack says, truthfully. 

“You—you can’t— _fuck,_ Jack.” And in the middle of everything, Jack is caught off guard because Crutchie almost never swears. There’s a long quiet, broken by just the static-filled sound of Crutchie crying. Jack’s own cheeks are wet. “It’s been _five months_ ,” he gasps finally. “I thought—we all thought you died in that fire. Holy _shit._ Where have you _been?_ ”

Jack’s head spins. He hadn’t even realized how much time has passed. Five _months_...it’s June now, then, and the spring semester of classes is already over, and he’s nineteen, and there’s this gaping chasm of lost time in his head—

“—ck? _Jack_.” 

He realizes that Crutchie is calling his name abruptly, and Jack blinks, trying to clear his thoughts. “Yeah, I-I’m here. I don’t—everything’s fuzzy, Crutchie, I don’t know what happened, where I’ve been—” His words trip and stumble over each other. “I’m gonna try and find my way back to the lodging house, I’ve just gotta—”

“No, no, wait, you can’t,” Crutchie cuts him off, suddenly fierce. Jack pauses.

“What do you mean?”

His response is quieter this time, tentative. Slow, like he’s walking on his toes. “Jackie...how much do you know about what’s been going on?” 

Dread pools in Jack’s chest, hot and fast. For as long as they’ve known each other, he’s only heard Crutchie sound like this, scared and small and hesitant, a few times before. Something has gone deeply wrong; he knows it in an instant, maybe should have realized it even before now. “What is it, Crutchie?” he demands.

Crutchie takes a shuddering breath. “They said you set the fire,” he says, and Jack’s stomach plummets. “It was all over the news—they said the hospital wasn’t an accident, that Strike—that _you—_ had planned the whole thing, did it on purpose.”

“No...” Jack feels nauseous, dizzy, sure in that moment that he’s going to be sick all over the pavement. His memories of the hospital brim with fear and heat and voices that echo in his skull, and the idea that the public believes _he’s_ the cause of that, of all that death and destruction, hurting innocent people—he can’t stomach it. Doesn’t know how to.

“Jack, people were angry. _Really_ angry. Not just at Strike—there was a whole new anti-super wave, worse than it’s ever been before, and now everyone thinks supers are dangerous and they started... taking people.” Crutchie’s voice goes even lower as Jack feels his heart crawl up into his throat. “They—we call them Snatchers, we think they’re in league with the police—they’ve surrounded the lodging house and swarmed half the city, dragging kids with powers off to someplace called the Refuge.”

Everything goes hot and sharp for a moment, a quick snap of recognition that burns like fire. Jack tastes metal in his mouth, chokes on it. “That’s where I was,” he says hollowly. He knows it even through the fogginess in his head.

“Oh, Jackie,” Crutchie begins, but Jack doesn’t let him finish.

“Are the others—is everyone okay? Race, Specs, Elmer—did they get taken?” The lodging house is a frequent stop for super kids who need a place to spend the night, but the three of them and Jack are the only permanent residents that have powers. If the Snatchers found them, they’d have been dragged off to the same fate that Jack has only just escaped. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Crutchie says yes.

“They’re holed up with Spot in Brooklyn,” Crutchie replies, and Jack lets himself exhale. “I haven’t been talking to them a whole lot, because they’re trying to stay under the radar, but the last time I heard from them, they were okay.” He gives a rattled sort of laugh, devoid of humor and more exhausted than anything. “Shit, Jackie. Everything fell apart without you.”

Jack passes a hand over his face, wants to cry. Wants to scream and tell Crutchie that he’s lost and drowned and terrified, that he feels more helpless than he’s ever been, that for all the time he’s spent playing hero he doesn’t know how to save anyone from this. Instead, though, he sets his jaw. “I’m gonna fix this, Crutchie,” he says, half-promise and half-prayer. He’ll find a way.

“Jack—” Crutchie begins, but what he’s going to say next Jack doesn’t find out. The timer clicks, and there’s a robotic female voice in place of Crutchie’s that tells him the call has timed out. 

The line goes dead and then Jack is alone all over again, the vow he made weighing as heavy as the shackles on his wrists. 


	3. part two - a tergo lupi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> enter davey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not me going back on my proposed updating schedule already...but this is an early update, so i figured it would be excusable. tomorrow's a bit of a personal day for me so i'd thought i'd get this out here now so i can keep my head clear. up until this point, it's been pretty jack-centric—but davey is finally here! tw for mild violence (it's not graphic!). thank you again to my lovely readers for all of your support.

**_part two._ ** _  
_ _ a tergo lupi _

* * *

**IT’S MIDDAY AND SWELTERING** on their way back from the library. The late-June heat is bright and vivid—it’s not as bad as it could be, Davey thinks—it’s not August, but sweat trickles down his back and beads on his forehead all the same. He finds himself wishing they had chased down the snow cone truck that had passed them a few blocks back. He’d probably be able to look past the taste of straight sugar and food coloring if it meant having something cold on his tongue right now.

Les, to his credit, remains unbothered by the heat. He’s busy avoiding the cracks in the sidewalk and rambling about the books he picked up; he didn’t quite inherit the penchant for reading that Davey and Sarah both had when they were kids, but recently, Davey got him hooked on the  _ Percy Jackson  _ series, and he’s barely stopped talking about it since. 

He’s giving a full-disclosure review of  _ The Battle of the Labyrinth  _ when they round the corner to their stretch of apartment buildings, and at the same moment Davey’s phone pings.

“—and I didn’t like Rachel in the beginning but then she nailed Kronos in the face with a hairbrush so now I think she’s a badass,” Les says, and Davey should chide him for his language except his eyes settle down on a text from Sarah and his stomach drops a few hundred feet.

_ SNATCHERS ARE HERE. GET LES TO SAFETY. DON’T CALL US. _

At the end of the street, next to their building, there’s a van with the windows blacked out. 

“We need to go,” Davey says, the words thick and heavy and dark in his mouth. The borrowed books tumble from his arms. Les’s gaze snaps up to him, confused, and Davey takes his hand and half-drags him back around the corner, heart pounding in his ears. 

They’d been so careful. When Les, the anomaly, the only super in their family, had started showing his powers, they’d pulled him out of school, tried their best to teach him control despite having no experience whatsoever. Les was a fast learner, though. He’d gone from having flowers trail behind his every step to knowing how to coax the vegetables in their mother’s garden to perfect ripeness in a matter of weeks, and he hid his abilities well. They thought that made him safe. 

Clearly they were wrong.

“What’s going on?” Les demands, tugs against him.

In that moment he looks more eleven years old and afraid than he has in a long time, and Davey wants nothing more than to be patient and gentle and kind with him. But there’s no  _ time;  _ the explanation spills forth in a rush. “They’re here for you, Les. Snatchers. We can’t go home, maybe not for a while.”

Les’s eyes go wider, mouth quivering. “What about Mom and Dad and Sarah?” 

“They’ll be okay. They’re not here for them. But we need to run, Les,  _ now. _ ” He risks a glance over his shoulder and sees two men in jet-black uniforms striding towards them, and his heart leaps into his throat. “C’mon!”

He tightens his grip on Les’s hand and they bolt together down the sidewalk, shoving past the crowds. Davey doesn’t know where they’re going, just knows they can’t stop. The Snatchers are on their heels, shouting something unintelligible at them, their words lost to the noise of the streets. Davey’s too busy running through prayers in his head to care; he pleads with God for protection and luck and maybe a miracle. 

Then, Les is jerked out of his hand, and for one dark, fleeting moment, Davey loses faith.

There’s a hand over his mouth before his brother’s name can rip from his throat. Davey struggles against it, kicking and yelling and shoving blindly as someone drags him into an alleyway and pins him against the wall. They’re stronger than he is and Davey, though fighting for his brother and therefore unrelenting, is overpowered. There’s a hand on his chest and one still firmly muffling his shouts.

“Shut  _ up, _ ” a voice hisses, low and dangerous beside Davey’s ear. “I’m trying to  _ help you.”  _

The words take a moment to register in Davey’s mind. He blinks, his eyes searching for Les, who stands a few feet away in the shadows of the alley, looking drawn and afraid but safe. Davey goes still. 

The pressure on his chest eases marginally, and it’s in that moment that he allows his gaze to settle on the stranger. The boy can’t be much older than him, with a tousle of dark hair and eyes as hard and bright as live steel. He’s oddly familiar. His clothes are tattered and he looks sort of haunted, like he’s maybe been running forever, but still, there’s this graceful edge to his features and something proud and defiant in his expression. 

And he’s  _ very  _ close to Davey’s face.

Davey feels his cheeks grow maddeningly warm and hopes that the blush that comes all too easily to them isn’t showing. By the smirk on the boy’s face, there’s no chance. 

“Stay quiet,” he says, slowly removing his hand from Davey’s mouth and giving him a look that is all at once warning and teasing. 

Davey gives a shaky exhale and moves towards Les. “Are you okay?” he asks softly, and his younger brother nods, sending a cool trickle of relief through Davey’s stomach. His eyes return to their rescuer; there’s a million questions burning in his throat—who he is, why he helped them, if they’ve met before, why there’s a pair of broken cuffs around his wrists—but in the end, he doesn’t voice any of them. He just shifts his weight and says, “Thank you.”

The boy gives him a grim sort of smile. “Don’t mention it. You’re not hurt, are you?”

“No,” Davey shakes his head. “You saved us.”

He opens his mouth as though to respond to this, but then his eyes catch on something in the entrance to the alleyway and his expression drops, replaced with a harsh, flinty glare. “Maybe not,” he says darkly. “Get behind me.”

There’s a Snatcher standing between the brick, dressed like a shadow and pointing the muzzle of a gun at them. Davey feels fear jump through him, hot and sharp, and takes a step back, shoving Les behind him. 

“What do you know,” the man spits, his eyes and crude smile flashing, “Jack Kelly, the walking ghost. And harboring another little super-powered brat—Snyder’s gonna be thrilled.”

_ Jack Kelly.  _ The pieces slot together in Davey’s mind; that’s why he looked familiar—Davey has seen him on the news. He’s Strike, an ex-hero turned criminal, an arsonist. A murderer. Davey reels back, a bitter taste in his mouth, and places a protective arm around Les.

Jack barely reacts. His gaze is set on the man in front of him, hands tightening into fists, and Davey can see the tension that pulls his shoulders and the muscle in his jaw taut. He and the Snatcher survey each other, poised like two wolves, both equally deadly. The air reeks of oncoming disaster.

It’s Jack who moves first, as quick and sharp as lightning. A shot goes off, and Davey feels Les flinch violently against him, but the bullet pings uselessly against the wall and only seconds later the Snatcher’s gun is on the ground. Davey almost doesn’t know who to root for—in between a kidnapper and an arsonist who set a whole hospital on fire, it’s picking the lesser of two evils—but Jack seems to have no interest in hurting Les and is therefore the only person that Davey can trust to get them out of here alive. Not to mention that he’s winning; Jack moves fluidly but with purpose, dodging nimbly out of the way of the Snatcher’s blows and landing swift, hard jabs. 

Davey half wonders why he isn’t using his powers, but he doesn’t seem to need them. The Snatcher is stumbling back already, and as he rears a fist back for a blow, Jack’s hand darts out and strikes the man just above his collarbone. One stinging, targeted hit and the Snatcher crumples, like a marionette whose strings have been cut. 

Jack turns slowly to Davey. He’s swaying on his feet, knuckles split and breathing hard, like that was all the fight he had left in him, but Davey can’t dredge up any sympathy. Not for the person who burned down a building full of innocent people. “You’re supposed to be dead,” he says.

“So I’ve heard,” Jack replies. His eyes are lidded, exhaustion palpable in the air around him, but he levels his gaze with Davey’s. “Look, I know what you’ve heard—”

“That you set a hospital on fire? That you’re a murderer?” 

Hurt cuts across Jack’s face, leaving no trace of the wolfish snarl it held only moments before. “It wasn’t me,” he bursts. “I know what they said on the news, but I swear to you, I didn’t do it.”

He sounds sincere, almost desperate. But Davey isn’t stupid; he knows that killers make good liars. “Why should I believe you?” he demands, and he’s tempted to call the police, to let them know that Strike is alive and on the run, but Les is still behind him and Jack is standing in between them and the alley’s only opening. 

“Because I just saved your life,” Jack says, and rubs at his wrist beneath the cuff, “and because I can help you.”

Davey grits his teeth. “I don’t need your help. All I need is for you to leave us alone.”

Jack shrinks back as though he’s been burned, as though Davey is the arsonist between them. With a heavy breath, he steps to the side, and Davey takes Les’s trembling hand and leads him toward the exit. 

“Where will you go?” Jack’s voice comes suddenly, and Davey whirls around. Jack puts his hands up in surrender, the metal around them catching in the light. “I just want to know if you have somewhere safe to stay. The streets are crawling with Snatchers, I’ve seen them everywhere. If they’re looking for you, luck won’t get you far.”

He doesn’t say it like a threat, just a warning. His dark eyes are earnest, and for a moment Davey thinks he looks less like a killer and more like the masked hero he’d seen pictures and grainy videos of online, pulling people from car wrecks, stopping thieves, saving lives. For the first time, he wonders if Jack is telling the truth.

And either way, he’s right. Davey and Les have nowhere to go, no other family in the city, and they can’t just wander the streets until it’s safe to go home. But Jack has saved them twice today already. He’s left the door wide open for them to walk away if they choose to—and while it goes against every inch of Davey’s moral code to accept help from a killer, his priority is keeping Les safe. If going with Jack is the only way to do that, then he supposes he doesn’t have much of a choice. 

“Alright, Kelly,” he says finally, tightening his grip on Les’s hand and praying that he isn’t about to make a mistake in trusting a wolf. “Let’s say I accept. How do you plan to help us?”

“I know someone who can give us a place to spend the night.” Jack’s eyes flash in the first real, genuine smile that he’s given since they met. “Don’t worry, you’re gonna love her.”


	4. part three - safe haven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes i know what i said and i'm aware that it's been WEEKS since i posted and i have absolutely nothing to say for myself. except that i'm the worst. and also that i'm going to stop making promises and tell you guys straight out that i'm probably not going to be any better at updating from this point forward, especially considering i'm working on college apps and sat prep right now. but it's fine! i hope the fact that this chapter is only like 10 words less than all the other chapters so far put together sort of makes up for it? but i kind of hate this part; i have a ton of exposition to get through so i'm really really sorry if it sucks and you've waited this long for like 4.3k of bullshit. i'm also sorry that i still haven't introduced kath—she will get here in the next chapter and she will play no small role in this fic, i promise!! we've just got a lot to get through leading up to that. anyway, thank you to everyone who's read and reviewed so far, and if you're still here despite my questionable reliability (or lack thereof) i love you, personally. as always, please give a huge thank you to my amazing beta reader and gf, @mistyw273, without whom this fic would not exist.
> 
> tw for this chapter include a minor panic attack? mentions of vomiting but it's pretty brief, and that's about it.

**_part three._ ** _  
_ _ safe haven _

* * *

**MEDDA IS SINGING** when they get to her apartment. 

Even through the closed door, Jack can hear her voice lilting down the corridor, a bittersweet melody that he can’t quite remember but loves all the same. It makes him falter, makes his throat close up as warmth and the ache of missing her spread through his chest in time with each other. He doesn’t know what she’ll say when she sees him, and the thought of her viewing him as a killer nearly makes his knees buckle. Distantly he thinks that it doesn’t matter what the world has been told as long as she believes him.

“Is this it?” the older boy says behind him, gesturing to the door that Jack is staring at. He’d mostly been quiet the whole walk here, but now he’s looking at Jack expectantly.

Jack nods and pushes back the tide of emotions swelling in his chest. If he waits any longer he might never be able to do this. He knocks twice on the door, and her singing cuts off abruptly; he hears her voice saying “Coming!” and then the lock clicking as the door swings open.

“Hi, Miss Medda,” Jack says hoarsely. 

She stares at him. For this brief, terrible moment, he thinks she’s going to turn him away, and then she’s crying and  _ oh _ , she pulls him into a hug. Something he’s been trying to hold back since he found himself running in the streets hours ago spills forth. In her arms he can’t stop the tears; he feels suddenly twelve years old again, scared and small but not alone, not anymore.

“You’re alive,” she’s saying, over and over, like a mantra. “Oh, baby, you’re really here.”

Jack clings to her tightly. “I didn’t do it,” he breathes, desperate for her to know as she runs a hand through his hair. “The fire—that wasn’t me.”

“I didn’t believe them for one second.” Medda pulls him back at arm’s length. “But where have you been?”

He winces, looks away. “The Refuge. I just escaped.” Her mouth opens again but he shakes his head slightly and she nods, understanding immediately. 

“It’s okay, sweetie. We’ll talk later,” she says, and cups his cheek with a gentle hand. He leans into it, starved of positive contact like this for so long. “Jack Kelly,” she says warmly, her eyes shining—he’s gotten so used to hearing his name spit at him like a curse—“I thought I’d never see you again.” She huffs a laugh and smiles at him, wiping at his eyes with her thumb. “Don’t you ever disappear on me like that again, you understand?”

He gives a watery chuckle, maybe his first in months. “I’ll do my best, Miss Medda.”

She pulls him into another hug, squeezing his shoulders tightly, before her eyes come to rest on the two boys still standing awkwardly in the hallway. “And who are your new friends?” she asks.

“Oh, this is—” Jack breaks off, realizing abruptly that they had never gotten to introductions. The younger of the two steps forward and puffs his chest out. 

“I’m Les, and this is my brother, David,” he says brightly. He’s been solemn since Jack met him, no doubt jarred by his experience with the Snatchers, but Medda’s warmth is notoriously infectious. Even the kid’s older brother—Davey—cracks a smile.

“It’s nice to meet you, ma’am,” he says politely, and Medda beams and waves a hand.

“None of that. It’s Miss Medda to you, darling. Come on in,” She steps out of the doorway and gestures inside, placing a gentle hand on the small of Jack’s back as she ushers him in. He’s grateful for it, a grounding presence that reminds him he’s really here in front of her. “Stay as long as you like, boys.”

In the last few hours alone, Jack has felt like he’s been thrust into an entirely different world. Entering Medda’s apartment is a burst of shining familiarity; there’s the elegant wooden piano in the corner, the blooming plants lining the windowsills, the photos of the theater and the paintings Jack has done over the years hanging on the walls. The faint smell of cinnamon in the air. He may never have lived here, but it feels like coming home all the same.

“I’ve still got the clothes you’ve left here, if you want to change,” Medda tells him. “I’ll get something going for us to eat—how does Sancocho sound? I don’t have any plantains, and now I know it’s not quite the same without them—”

“That sounds incredible, Miss Medda,” Jack says, his mouth already watering. For as long as he’s known her, Medda has always made it a point to give him and the other boys a taste of home however she can manage. She’d tested recipes for Sancocho for months until she’d perfected the warm, rich stew that always drew up distant memories of Jack’s mother. 

Medda smiles at him and bustles into the kitchen, pulling vegetables from the fridge. “David, Les, is there anything you two don’t eat?” she calls to them.

“Oh, we keep Kosher, so no pork, shellfish, or meat and dairy together? And Les can’t have peanuts. Sorry,” Davey responds quickly.

“No worries, darling, this recipe doesn’t call for any of that anyway. Dinner will be ready in a couple of hours—Jack, why don’t you go clean up and get some rest? You look exhausted, baby.”

It’s one of those things he doesn’t fully realize until she points out, and then it hits him full-force; he thinks his legs will give with the impact of it. He’s tired and starved and wants absolutely nothing more than to take a hot shower and eat and sleep through the next day—and in truth the only thing holding him back is the still-stinging bite of the cuffs around his wrists. 

“Uh, Miss Medda—you got a screwdriver somewhere around here?” he asks tentatively, rubbing at the skin underneath them.

Her gaze drifts to his hands and she winces in sympathy. “In the office down the hall. There’s a toolkit on the shelf—you need some help, Jack?”

He shakes his head. “No, I’ve got it,” he says as he heads into the room.

It turns out to be harder than he expected. He spends a good ten minutes hacking at the cuffs with a screwdriver, but all he really succeeds in doing is scraping his wrists raw. He’s getting desperate, though—the longer he’s stripped of his powers, the less he feels like himself, and the silver steel is nothing but a jolting reminder of everything that’s happened. He needs to find a way to get these stupid things  _ off.  _

“It doesn’t look like you’ve got it.”

Jack’s head snaps up to see Davey standing in the doorway, his hands in his pockets. His expression is hard to read, half-concerned but laced with something else, and he’s sort of tentative as he steps into the room and kneels down beside Jack. “Here, let me.” He holds his hand out for the screwdriver. 

Jack gives it to him and splays his hands out in between them. Davey switches out the head of the tool for a tiny flathead and gets to work on the right cuff, astonishingly careful. His slender, practiced fingers pry open a tiny panel on the side of the cuff, exposing the circuit board underneath.

“You seem to know what you’re doing,” Jack notes.

Davey pauses his movement for a split second and then continues without looking up. “I was captain of my high school robotics team for two years,” he responds. “And I’m an engineering major.”

Jack clings to this small piece of information; it’s the first thing he’s learned about Davey since they met, and he’s already desperate for more. “Where do you go?” he asks. At this, Davey tenses up, and Jack bites back a wince. “I’m not trying to interrogate you,” he says flatly, after a moment. “Guess I just...thought you’d changed your mind about me.”

Davey’s dark eyes latch on to Jack’s for just a moment before darting away. “I don’t know yet,” he answers finally. He prods at the wires of the cuff; there’s this crinkle in his brow that Jack can’t help but think is sort of endearing. “Miss Medda seems like a really good person,” he continues, still barely looking at Jack. “And she clearly loves you a lot. It’s possible you could be lying to her, too, but the way you were when you saw her—no one’s that good of an actor.”

“So what’s your holdup?”

“I’m not sure what to believe.” Davey twists the screwdriver and bites his lip, then meets Jack’s gaze at last. “After you—after the hospital burned down, the whole city was in chaos. No one knew what to think or who to blame—the police revealed that the sprinkler line had been damaged, and that some of the exits had been sealed, and that the fire started because the power box had been tampered with.”

Jack’s stomach twists. “I don’t understand...you—you’re saying it wasn’t an accident?”

“I think if it had been, it would’ve been contained a lot faster,” Davey says darkly. “It hadn’t even been a week before  _ The World  _ published a full story about how it was Strike’s doing. Jack, there were witness statements, sources explaining how your powers could’ve caused this—”

“I was trying to  _ save  _ people _ , _ ”

“A lot of people thought you had done it by accident. Or that you’d...snapped, or something.”

“I nearly died in that fire.” He isn’t entirely sure he hadn’t, to be honest. Everything since then is blurry and out of place, and he feels like he’s been set right back to grappling desperately for a handhold, like he’s in the center of an inferno all over again—

There’s a click of metal on metal and the cuff on his right hand clatters to the floor. 

“Got it,” Davey says, and suddenly Jack can breathe again. Even with the cuff still circling his left hand, he feels electricity surge through him, that familiar hum of lightning beneath his skin. A part of him he hasn’t felt in so, so long. 

Sparks dance over his fingertips, and the air fills with static. He can see the hairs on Davey’s arms standing on end and despite everything, fights the urge to laugh. Davey looks at him, eyes wide with amazement, and Jack wonders if he can taste the power in the air, too. 

“Thanks,” Jack says, breathless as he runs his hand over the torn skin of his wrist. 

Davey nods and gently takes his left hand, starting the process again and evidently more sure of what he’s doing now. “Jack,” he begins, but whatever he’s going to say next, Jack doesn’t let him finish.

“Someone set me up,” he says fiercely, trying hard not to sound as desperate for Davey to believe him as he really is. “Whatever evidence and witnesses they had—it was fake.”

“Okay, but  _ why? _ ” Davey presses. “Why go through all this trouble to frame a dead man? How did they get  _ The World  _ to publish a bunch of false information? And if someone really is trying to pin this on you,” there’s a click, and the cuff around Jack’s left hand pings against the ground, “who set the fire in the first place?”

* * *

Jack can’t remember the last time he’d had a hot shower. Even before the fire—and god, Jack is really about to start categorizing his life events as before and after his  _ death,  _ like that’s not absolutely insane—the lodging house never really had a surplus of hot water, especially with so many of them. Standing under it now, though, everything else melts into the background. There are scars and bruises along his skin that he hadn’t even noted before, but the water is like instant relief; he doesn’t have to think, just lets it wash him clean.

By the time he gets out, the effects of the drugs, which have been weaning away for hours now, seem completely gone. Everything is sharper, like he’s been thrusted into high-definition, his thoughts clearer and his memories—well, his memories becoming more painful by the second.

It’s not easy, trying to push it all back. As he pulls on fresh clothes, Jack stares at himself in the mirror, at the jagged scars raised against his chest and the tiny spots that pockmark his forearms where he  _ remembers  _ needles going in, and tries to reconcile this picture of himself—exhausted and hollowed out and afraid—with the identity he’d spent so long building up from the ground. He doesn’t look like Strike, New York City’s favorite vigilante. He looks like a scared kid.

He doesn’t know what to  _ do.  _ Something bigger than himself is brewing in the city, he knows it, he  _ has _ to stop it. But he doesn’t know how. People are counting on him and Jack just wants to forget any of this ever happened.

There’s so much noise. Davey’s questions are ringing in his ears and behind them there are voices telling him he’s never, ever going to get out, and he thinks he might be on fire. Everything is too hot and too loud and  _ hurts. _

There’s nothing in his stomach to throw up, but he dry heaves over the toilet anyway.

Jack sits back on the cold tile floor and drags his knees up to his chest. He could just go—break out the money he’s been saving and skip town, hop on a bus all the way to Santa Fe. Crutchie could come with him, and he could change his name—again—and start fresh. Never see this place again.

Except there’s an arsonist on the loose in the city. There are Snatchers all over the streets, and maybe Jack wants nothing more than to leave it but New York is still  _ his city,  _ still his place to protect. He  _ can’t  _ just leave.

Jack tilts his head towards the ceiling, biting back the urge to scream. The unsteady silence is broken by a tentative knock at the door, and then Medda’s voice—“Jack, honey,” she says, “Dinner’s ready. You okay in there?”

Slowly, he picks himself off the floor, pulls the loose hoodie hanging on the door on over his clean t-shirt, takes a shuddering breath. “I’ll be right out,” he calls through the door, and glances at his reflection one more time. He can be Strike again. He can do this. 

And even if he can’t, he has to.

* * *

The sancocho is perfect, warm and spicy and brimming with the taste of home. By the time he’s inhaled maybe three servings and helped clear the dishes, Jack is so exhausted that he doesn’t even make it to the guest room. He just stumbles towards the couch and collapses there with the sunlight still spilling in through the windows, falling hard and fast into a heavy sleep.

It’s dark when he bolts awake. He feels hot and breathless, his heart racing against his ribcage, and whatever awful memory had invaded his dreams left the sharp taste of metal in his mouth. Sparks flicker across his fingers, blinding blue-white in the darkness, and Jack curls his hands into fists to quell the lightning brimming in his veins. His eyes dart to the clock on the wall; it’s just past one in the morning. He doesn’t think he’ll get back to sleep any time soon.

He maneuvers around the coffee table to stumble blindly towards the kitchen instead. A dim glow catches his eye, then; Davey is sitting at the bar stools, hunched over his laptop.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Jack says, and Davey starts and then swears.

“Jeez, you gave me a heart attack,” he huffs as Jack chuckles lightly and fills a glass with water. “I thought you were still asleep. And...no. You?”

Jack shrugs. “I slept okay, got a few good hours. But I don’t think I can go back to bed. What are you doing?” he asks, nodding towards the open laptop.

Davey hesitates. “Miss Medda let me borrow her computer. I’m trying to contact the rest of my family,” he replies, his gaze flitting between the screen and Jack’s eyes. “When Les and I ran off there were already Snatchers at our house. None of them have powers, though. Just Les.” He works his lip between his teeth. “They said not to contact them in case the Snatchers found some way to trace it back to us, but I set up a separate email account and sent them a vague message, hoping they’ll know it’s me. I just need to know if they’re okay.”

Jack’s chest twists in sympathy. Davey’s family is just one more example of all the lives the Snatchers have torn apart—and Jack is the poster boy for their whole agenda. He has to fix this, for Davey, and for the rest of his city. “You’ll see them again soon, Davey,” he says—yet another promise he can’t afford to break—“I’m gonna make this right, okay?”

“How?” Davey scoffs. “You don’t even know where to start.”

Jack slips his hands into the pockets of his clean hoodie and feels the familiar weight of the flash drive he’d placed there. Actually, he might have some idea. “Can I use the computer?” Jack says, barely waiting for Davey’s nod before taking a seat on the barstool beside him and plugging the flash drive in. 

“What is that?” Davey’s brow furrows.

“Honestly? I’m not sure. I took this from a computer in the Refuge’s control room, hoping I’d find something important. Maybe something here could give us a clue of what’s really going on.” There’s only a handful of files on the drive, and they’re labeled with numbers instead of actual names. Jack opens the first one and feels his heart sink. “Shit. It’s encrypted.”

“Let me try,” Davey says, pulling the laptop towards him and typing furiously. The computer makes a few error noises in protest as he works through the code, but Davey is laser-focused, seems to know exactly what he’s doing. He’s some kind of genius. “Got it,” he announces after a few minutes. Sure enough, the screen flickers, and rows of text begin to replace the numbers and symbols from before.

“That was incredible,” Jack tells him.

Davey shrugs and ducks his head, smiling just a little before turning back to the screen. “They look like email exchanges. Between some guy named Snyder—” Jack feels a cold trickle of shock run through him at that name, “—and...Joseph Pulitzer.”

“Wait, Pulitzer?” Jack leans forward to read over Davey’s shoulder. “As in the CEO of the World?”

“He’s running for mayor in next month’s election,” Davey explains. “It looks like he’s trying to get Snyder’s support? He’s promising money to fund the Refuge. But why would— _ shit _ .” There’s something dawning on his expression as he looks up at Jack, eyes blown wide. “Jack, a lot of his campaign has relied on anti-super propaganda. And... _ The World  _ was the one who first published the story about you setting the fire.”

The realization crashes into him, hard and fast. “He’s the one who framed me.” Jack feels a hot rush of anger surge through him. “For what, a political platform? So that he could give the people a common enemy? Holy  _ shit,  _ did he set that fire for this...twisted agenda?” 

“I can’t believe this,” Davey shakes his head, leaning back in his chair and tugging his hands through his dark hair, shell-shocked. “How could he do something like this?”

_ How could he? _

“I’m going to kill him,” Jack says fiercely, and the lights above him flicker. He stands up, feeling wild, brimming with untamed fury—innocent people  _ died  _ for Pulitzer’s insane power grab, and he has to pay for that. He can’t get away with this, he  _ won’t;  _ Jack can’t find it in himself to mitigate his anger right now, he needs to find Pulitzer and  _ fix this. _

“Jack— _ Jack! _ ” Davey’s hand latches around his wrist and a shock like static electricity bursts between them, making him pull back. “ _ Wait.  _ You’re not thinking clearly.”

“What, you just want me to let him walk? He  _ killed  _ people, Davey. Innocent people.”

“You don’t actually know that yet.”

“I know enough,” Jack snaps, pulling back. “This can’t all be a coincidence, it makes too much sense. He has to be behind this, behind  _ everything.” _

“I’m not arguing that.” Davey is astonishingly calm; Jack doesn’t know how he can keep his resolve right now, after finding out something this sick. “But what are you going to do, break into his house and murder him? What is that going to solve? Things are only gonna get  _ worse _ for supers.”

Jack hesitates. Davey is right—a personal attack on one of the most influential people in New York would make him even more of a villain than he already is. And every super in the city would suffer from it. He can’t make this some sort of revenge plot; he has to be smart about it. He takes a shuddering breath. “Then I’ll expose him. These emails—”

“—aren’t enough. All you have from this is a theory. Pulitzer would just find a way to spin it, make you look like the bad guy here.  _ Again. _ ” He shakes his head. “He holds all the cards right now. We have to find hard, indisputable evidence. What we need is a way to get close to him.”

“We?” Out of everything, that’s the word Jack gets hung up on. Davey’s making it sound as though they’re partners. 

Davey looks at him for a second. “I believe you, Jack,” he says finally. “I’m sorry I didn’t before. I don’t think you set that fire, and if we’re right, and Pulitzer did frame you, and we can find proof...we might be able to stop everything. Shut down the Refuge for good.”

“No, no—I’m not dragging you into this any further than I already have,” Jack stops him before he can go any further. His whole time as Strike, he’s been a solo act for a reason—not for lack of Race or Specs or Elmer trying to get him to let them join him—but because he can’t bring himself to pull someone else into this life. Especially not someone like Davey, who’s an engineering student, and a genius, and has a  _ family.  _ He’s got his whole life ahead of him. “I appreciate everything you’ve done to help me so far, I really do, but I can take it from here. You and your brother just lay low and stay out of trouble.”

“You can’t do this by yourself,” Davey argues. There’s something hardening behind his eyes, something bright and sharp and determined. “I’ve already shown you what I can do, so let me help you.”

“It’s too dangerous.”

He snorts, defensive. “I can handle it.”

“You think so?” Jack stares him down, skin buzzing. “I almost  _ died  _ because of this, and I may not remember everything about the Refuge, but I can tell you that it wasn’t pretty. If we try to take Pulitzer, there’s a good chance we don’t make it out alive.”

Davey doesn’t break his gaze. “But if we do it together, we double our odds,” he says quietly. When Jack snorts and turns away, Davey keeps going. “This is so much bigger than you or me, Jack. If we can pull this off, we could make New York safe for supers again. I promised that I would protect Les, but I can’t do that as long as there are Snatchers roaming the streets and as long as Pulitzer has power. And  _ you _ can’t protect this city if you’re dead.” 

Jack wishes he didn’t have a point. “You could get hurt,” he counters. “You don’t even have powers.”

“You’ll protect me,” Davey replies swiftly, and something in Jack’s stomach twists.

“You have an awful lot of faith for someone who didn’t trust me an hour ago,” he says grimly, eyes darting away from Davey’s fierce ones.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” Davey presses, unrelenting, and  _ god _ , the offer is tempting. Davey clearly knows his way around his computers and technology, a skill that could be really helpful here, and more than that, Jack stupidly, selfishly doesn’t want to do this by himself. He  _ wants  _ a partner. He’s tired of being alone, and he hates himself for it. 

“We do this on my terms,” Jack says finally, and in the corner of his eye, he can see Davey smiling. “I say get out, you get out. You’ve got to be smart about this. Got it?”

“Understood,” Davey nods. “I’ll be okay, Jack. I promise. So where do we start?”

“It’s like you said, we have to get close to Pulitzer.” Jack sits back down, racks his brain for anything that could help. Pulitzer is a private person, watching the rest of the city from high off the ground; getting close to him would require someone who already knows him well. He can practically see the lightbulb over his head when it hits him—he knows the  _ perfect  _ candidate. He just hopes she’ll be willing to join them.

“I know someone who might be able to help,” Jack says, already drafting an email—coded words like the two of them used to use when he was just starting out as Strike. “She interned as Pulitzer’s personal assistant for a while when she was in high school, but the last time I saw her she was a journalism student, working for  _ The Sun.  _ She may not work for him anymore, but she knew Pulitzer as well as anyone.” Jack takes a deep breath and pleads silently that she’ll believe him, then sends the message. 

“And you think she’ll know what to do?” Davey asks.

“I’m sure of it.” Jack has always had faith in her; he knows she’ll come through, will fight for what she believes in. “If cards are what we’re playing,” he tells Davey, suddenly brimming with a newfound sense of determination, “then Katherine Plumber is our ace.”

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on [tumblr](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5MOtuJPFRS8Nmv2Zk6siHN?si=Pgl9YdRiTNuN9QuCPvTfHQ).


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